


Subtle Orchestrations

by endofnight



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Completely pointless, Fluff, Gen, I mean really, M/M, Piningjolras, Tumblr Prompt, enjolras being adorable, enjolras really can't cook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:06:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofnight/pseuds/endofnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It worked on television. Borrow ingredient. Make food. Invite neighbor. Where had he gone wrong?</p><p>***</p><p>A quick little pointless story, based on <a href="http://pullthedevildown.tumblr.com/post/54746496976/piningjolras-fic-where-enjolras-and-grantaire-are">this post</a> on tumblr. </p><p>I got three hours of sleep. I blame that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subtle Orchestrations

The first time Enjolras met his new across-the-hall neighbor, he felt like he'd been punched in the face.

The guy was basically perfect. A little shorter, a little broader, with inky black hair in riotous curls and piercing blue-green eyes that always glittered with the smirk on his scruffy (oh-so-scruffy, when did he develop a thing for  _scruffy_ he wondered as he shaved every morning) face.  

So anyway, the first time Enjolras met him, they were both in the laundry room. He was just leaving and Enjolras had just entered and discovered that every last washer was being used. It was a pain in the ass, but no matter. Combeferre had his own in-unit washer and dryer and he could probably wheedle his way in with excuses of studying and working on internship applications.  

Combeferre was a sucker for a good internship application. 

The other man almost bowled him over, staring at his phone as he was. He barely glanced up with a muttered  _sorry_ (and oh, was Enjolras not expecting that voice to come out of him) before squeezing past him out of the steamy laundry room (he could feel his hair curling unnecessarily) and disappearing into the adjacent stairwell.  

Enjolras was in love. 

*** 

_Plan of action,_ Enjolras thought.  _Step one: Make contact._

He straightened the hem of his plaid shirt, and unbuttoned and rebuttoned the top two buttons three times before scowling at himself and stomping across the hall. He knocked on the door, probably harder than he should have, and waited, wiping sweaty palms on his black skinny jeans. 

His neighbor ( _Grantaire_ , Enjolras had discovered, when he'd decided to spy in the mailroom and found his name plastered on the correct mailbox. Entirely coincidence, he would assure anyone who asked) opened the door, eyebrows raised. He seemed to let those thick, expressive eyebrows do a lot of talking for him and-- 

He cut himself off before he wrote more sonnets about his neighbor's eyebrows. Really, this was getting ridiculous. He'd never even spoken to the man. 

"Hi. I'm Enjolras." 

"Hi, Enjolras." Obviously amused, his neighbor leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms. Enjolras tried not to blink at his chest. "Is there something I can help you with?" 

"Ah." And Enjolras found that having your brain short-circuit wasn't nearly as exciting as the movies made it seem. 

*** 

_Plan of action,_ Enjolras thought.  _Step two: Make contact without looking like a jackass._

He stopped to glance in the mirror by the door to fluff his hair. He studiously avoided looking at the sink. The eggs he'd borrowed (which, if he stopped to think about it, was a stupid phrase, because you can't exactly give eggs _back_ ) yesterday, stupidly thinking he could make crepes were still glued in semi-crepe form to the bottom of his pan, which was soaking in hot water in the sink.  

It worked on television. Borrow ingredient. Make food. Invite neighbor. Where had he gone wrong? 

It had to be the eggs. Grantaire had given him bad eggs.  

Letting out a huff of breath, mildly irritated at himself, he stomped across the hall again, pausing to knock.  

Grantaire opened the door. Today he was wearing an old, faded purple t-shirt that made his eyes seem impossibly green, and sinfully tight jeans. 

Enjolras found that tongues actually could get tied.  

"You ok, Enjolras?" 

"You, um. I mean, yesterday, I made crepes." 

"...you made crepes yesterday? That's good?" Enjolras wanted to smack the laughter out of Grantaire's voice and off his face, but he wanted to do so with his own face and... 

"What?"  

"I said, why are you telling me about your crepes?" 

"Anyway, I made crepes. But today I'm making...um...brownies! So, I need sugar. I mean, do you have sugar?" Brownies weren't hard, right? 

"Yes, I have sugar. Hang on." Grantaire disappeared back inside, cracking the door, and speaking to someone inside.  

Enjolras narrowed his eyes.  _Competition_. 

He was going to make the best damn brownies Grantaire had ever eaten.  

*** 

Three hours, one pan, one fire alarm and two firemen later, Enjolras stood in the foyer of his apartment, being lectured on the proper procedure for making moist brownies by a fireman named Claude while Grantaire stood in the hallway, not bothering to hide his laughter. 

*** 

_Plan of action,_ Enjolras thought.  _Step three: Never try to make pie again._

***  

_Plan of action,_ Enjolras thought. _Step four: If Mother can make it, I damn well can._

Enjolras was feeling confident. There was  _no way_ he could mess this one up. He pulled the recipe from the cookbook his mother had complied and followed it step by step. He wasn't entirely sure what buttermilk was, but he brushed it off with a haughty sniff as he poured the melted butter into the milk and stirred...was it supposed to curdle like that? He stirred more, nodding once he was satisfied.  

He opened the waffle iron he'd bought from the secondhand store, visions of piles of fluffy waffles dancing before his eyes as he poured the mixture...was it supposed to spill over like that? Surely, the batter would stiffen up as it cooked.  

He locked the iron and stepped back, waiting. He gave a relieved smile when steam started pouring from the iron. He was sure that meant they were ready.  

He tried to open the waffle iron and found that, even though he'd unlocked it, it was cemented tight. He jumped back with an unmanly yelp when a spark shot out of the cord where it connected to the iron. The towel with the rooster on it that he'd picked up on whimsy when he'd bought the iron caught on fire, letting out an acrid smell of burning polyester.  

"Oh, shit." Were you supposed to put a pan cover on a towel that was on fire, or just a grease fire? Wait. Flour! He grabbed a cupful of the waffle mix and tossed it on the fire which...did nothing except burn, spreading black, burning carbon along the stove and counter.  

He looked up when his front door flew open, surprised to see Grantaire boggling at him.  

"Grantaire!" 

"What the hell are you doing!" He watched as the other man rounded the counter, running into the kitchen and grabbed the towel, tossing it in the sink and turning the water on. He wet another towel and beat out the burning counter, the small kitchen filled with toxic-smelling smoke.  

A handful of neighbors were standing in his doorway and one came in to open the window across from the kitchen.  

"What--" 

"The fire department hooked your alarm up to the main line," his landlord, Georges, said from the doorway. "In case you tried to burn down the building again." 

Enjolras sighed, cheeks and ears tinged pink.  

He looked at Grantaire. "I can't cook." Grantaire rolled his eyes. 

"No, really?" 

*** 

_Plan of action,_ Enjolras thought.  _Step five: Do anything but cook._

He'd tried to borrow strawberries from Grantaire because really, how hard was a strawberry danish? But Grantaire had just shut the door in his face.  

So, it was through a pure stroke of luck that Enjolras discovered Grantaire's wireless printer in the list of his neighbor's wireless devices. He knew Grantaire was a freelance graphic designer and also knew that Grantaire had pretty high-end technology in his apartment. 

Conveniently, the model number was included on the SSID and also, conveniently, directions on how to connect to it remotely were available in a quick Google search. 

So he did, heart pounding as he expected Grantaire to discover him and come running over at any minute.  

Each moment that passed without an appearance from his neighbor allowed him to calm and gather his thoughts. 

_Okay, Enjolras,_  he told himself.  _You have direct access to his apartment. What do you want to say?_ Tapping his pen against his lip thoughtfully, he decided to log into Facebook and see if Courfeyrac had any advice. He'd prefer Jehan, just for his romanticism, but Jehan would suggest flowers and poetry and secret-admirering and quite frankly, Enjolras had enough of beating around the bush.  

He clicked on Courfeyrac's name in the chat box and tapped out a quick message asking for advice. 

_Courf: You're asking ME for love advice??? To what do I owe this honr_

_Me: I trust you to treat this with discretion, Courfeyrac. I'm wondering what I can say to Grantaire to let him know of my interest._

_Courf: Tell him you want some horizontal refreshmen_

_Courf: you want to take old one eye to the optometrist_

_Courf: you want to tap that ass_

_Courf: know him in the biblical sense_

_Courf: get some stank on the hang down_

_Me: WTF?_

And then, to Enjolras's complete and utter horror, by a series of errant hand movements that he couldn't recall making, the _Now Printing_  box popped up in the lower right-hand corner of the screen, followed by the model number of Grantaire's printer. 

"Oh my god." He was having a heart attack. He was too young to die. He hadn't finished his will yet. Oh god, who was going to pay off his student loan? He was an only child; his parents would be devastated. Did anyone have a key to find his body before it started decomposing?  

There was a knock at the door and he squeaked.  

Coincidence. Just coincidence. He got up, wiping his hands on his jeans. Maybe he could ask his visitor for a ride to the emergency room.  

He opened the door to Grantaire, his _goddamn_ expressible eyebrows disappearing under his bangs, a piece of paper in hand. His face was indiscernible, but there was something almost...tender? in those crystal eyes. Enjolras ignored Grantaire's tight red shirt and gray jeans; he ignored the way his heart sped up when Grantaire's cologne washed over him.  

"Listen, I can explain--" 

" _Get some stank on the hang down?_ Really?"  

"My friend--" 

"Do you like me?" Enjolras paused, studying Grantaire's eyes. He let out a sigh 

"Yes." 

"Next time, just ask me out, and stop trying to burn the building down." 

"I--" 

"Really. No more cooking. I'll do the cooking." 

"You--wait, what?" 

Grantaire grinned, eminently relaxed once more. 

"Enjolras, would you like to come over for dinner tonight?"

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it.


End file.
